‘Poor things. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. “Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. It isn't your duty. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. "Added to which, she is neither so young as she was, nor, is her temper by any means improved—hem!" "Say no more on the subject, Sir," observed the stranger, gravely; "but let us turn to a more agreeable one—her daughter. She looked at him gravely and squinted. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat.
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